Three Years Later
by KroganVanguard
Summary: How many chances will the universe give you to be with the love of your life? And how will you keep screwing them up? Caskett angsty AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Angsty angst is angsty. Bear with me. Leave a review if you liked it (it'll encourage me to write more). It'll get better, I promise._

* * *

She runs into Alexis, of all things.

It started with a phone call from an old college friend from Stanford, now a newly-minted assistant professor at Columbia, who wants her to come in and do a guest lecture in the criminal law course about the realities of police work and Miranda rights. They've stayed in touch on-and-off over the years and Beckett has worked with enough prosecutors and public defenders to know that it is probably a good idea to do so. Columbia is a big university, and the possibility of running into Alexis doesn't even cross her mind. This is instead just another legitimate reason to do some work over the weekend, put together some slides, drown herself in her safety blanket instead of facing the rest of the world or indeed the bleak reality of her own life outside work.

It's been three years. She hasn't heard from him in three years. It's his fault. Her own fault. Their fault. Nobody's fault.

He dropped by once, to the precinct, visit carefully timed to avoid her. Thanked the boys, kissed Lanie on the cheek, shook Gates's hand, left some thoughtful going away presents. She regrets that those friendships were broken. That Ryan and Espo will never get to borrow the Ferrari or scrounge Knicks tickets again. That she won't see that fierce look in Lanie's eyes when he teases her and Espo about their date nights. They'd become a family, and now were fractured.

She considered writing or calling to Martha or Alexis. She never worked up the courage.

She sank back into work, pulling together the remnants of her heart, sheltering them within herself, determined never to be so vulnerable again. She knows she won't. Not a belief or an opinion but a fact that no other man is ever going to work himself so thoroughly into her life, her world, her affections. She hasn't dated since. Oh sure, the occasional night stand, initially hoping to jump start herself, later just for the sake of her body, for physical release. It isn't enough, it is never going to be enough, and eventually even Lanie stops asking, stops goading, stops trying to set her up on honest-to-god dates.

She scours the society pages for his name, for the latest model or D-list celebrity on his arm. He never appears. However it has affected him, he hasn't returned to his old ways.

The most ridiculous thing about their "break-up" is that they never got together.

Her one night stands are never better than when she closes her eyes, pictures his broad fingers on her body, bright blue eyes piercing her, pinning her against the wall, the floor, the table and pretends the fantasies came true.

She can't get over the fact she has better sex with the memory of a man she's never actually slept with than any she has welcomed into her bed since.

She never has to summon his memory consciously day to day, really, because he haunts the edges of her reality, chiming in with comments on bizarre cases, reminding her she needs a tea in the mornings or the afternoons, a ghost, a spectre that she is afraid will never leave her life. And even more terrified that maybe he will, because even the ghost of him is better than none of him at all and she doesn't want to be alone, doesn't want to go back to being who she was before he crashed into her life like a meteorite.

He hasn't written a Nikki Heat book since Rook and Heat broke up at the end of the last one. She cried reading the scene. He's gone back to Derrick Storm instead. Just the one book in three years. She devoured it cover to cover, even though everyone pointed out it wasn't his finest work. Lacked a little soul.

Instead she works days and nights and weekends, she's there at the precinct earlier than everyone else and stays later than everyone else. Their case closure rate has dropped since he left, a tangible reminder of what he brought to the team, so she works harder, trying to fill that six-foot-something sized hole in her life with whatever she can.

She doesn't go to Remy's any more. Or the Old Haunt.

Gates tells hers that if she keeps working like this she'll definitely be up for promotion to Lieutenant soon. Then asks her if that is what she really wants…his name hangs over the conversation with unspoken weight, neither woman wanting to acknowledge it, knowing that in some other reality, some other universe she has a different, happier trajectory through life. Not this one though.

So she soldiers on. Tries to bring murderers to justice, peace to victims' families. Smiles are rare and laughter rarer. Her father grips her shoulder, kisses her on the cheek, tries to be there for her as best as he can, much as she was once there for him. Three years later the sharp, stabbing pain has faded into a sort of dull ache she carries around with her, much like his ghost, and she knows that is the best she can hope for, the best she can have, so she settles for it, makes the pain her friend, makes do with her lot in life. After all, it is better than some people ever do. At least she found the love of her life. Even if they'll never settle down, get married, have children, build the life together she once dreamed of having, at least she knows he's real, he exists, she doesn't have to imagine what he might look like because she knows, she's seen the width of shoulders, the way his lips curve and the corners of eyes crinkle when he smiles.

Sometimes she dreams of the times they almost died, together. In a cold freezer, staring a dirty bomb in the face, the watery depths of the river swallowing their car, more than one madman with a gun. For other people these would be nightmares. For her they are happy dreams. She lives her nightmare. These are happy dreams because they were together, she interlaced her fingers through his, or wrapped her arms around his broad torso, melted into his embrace, They were together. He was by her side.

She doesn't drink coffee any more.

This is her life now, a dull ache, his ghost by her side, work, tea and books she can no longer bring herself to re-read.

Till she spots a familiar shade of orange-red hair in the middle of her lecture.


	2. Chapter 2

Till she spots a familiar shade of orange-red hair in the middle of her lecture.

She stumbles over her words as blue orbs the same shade as the ones that haunt her dreams catch her green ones, the gaze fierce, accusatory. She pauses, deliberately breaks eye contact with Alexis, draws in a deep breath and regathers her thoughts. Compartmentalizes. Gets on with the lecture with most of her forebrain while her hindbrain descends into panic and meltdown. New York is a huge city, and she avoids most of the places where any reminder of him could generally be found. She's slipped up though, slipped up by finding herself at Columbia and now she just has to get through the rest of the lecture.

She does, somehow. She avoids eye-contact with Alexis.

When she dismisses the class at the end, she considers fleeing quickly, too quickly for the girl to catch her, but she can't. She can't do that. There was a message in that first exchange of glances, and she won't hurt his daughter by running away from it. Not now. So she gathers her things at the desk in front, and waits as most of the class files out, a little rowdy, a little loud on this Friday afternoon, probably clocking off for the week, knowing Alexis will seek her out.

She looks up at the beautiful young woman who approaches the desk, hair pulled back in a ponytail, jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt on, the picture of youthful grace. No doubt she drives the boys wild. This time she doesn't break the eye contact, lets the anger pour out of Alexis, welcomes it into her as some sort of punishment, some sort of penance. She deserves it. She'll always deserve it.

The silence stretches out between them. The last of the students leave. There is no class afterwards coming in, thankfully.

She breaks.

"Alexis."

"Detective." Detective. Not Kate, not even Beckett. She deserves that too.

"How ar-" she's interrupted before she can even finish the trite phase.

"I'm not even in this class, you know. I'm not supposed to be here. But my roommate Cindy is sick, and she really needs notes and she did me massive favour a few weeks back so I offered to come down and take them for her." Alexis's voice is cold and clear, sharp like a sword.

They had a good relationship, before the split. OK, Alexis obviously didn't like seeing her father unhappy, and she knew she'd been the cause of that unhappiness on more than one occasion. But the girl had liked her and respected, consulted her for advice. In turn she'd liked Alexis, smart and filled with uncommonly good sense, a monument to his parenting skills. Whatever other accusations you could level at the man, you couldn't say he was anything other than a great father.

She could've grown to love the girl, she thought. Not as a mother, maybe more of an older sister or cool aunt. If they'd had the chance.

They hadn't.

"I'm sorry Alexis, for how things turned out. I hurt your father, and no doubt I hurt you and your grandmother too. I wish…things had been different."

"Me too." Alexis's voice is quieter now, more subdued. "He really loved you, you know. Still loves you maybe. God I don't know."

"I..yes, I know." _I love him too_. There is no way that is escaping her throat, not like this. "Is he…does he, I mean…?"

The spectre at the edge of her vision laughs at her, not unkindly. The way he always did, trying to make her enjoy the moment, laugh at her own inability to speak.

A look of pity washes over Alexis's face. That almost breaks her. Anger she can deal with. Fear, hate, rage, pain and any combination of them- all of that is just fine. But pity…pity hurts the most. Pity means her ache is close to surface, is visible in terms of raw emotion on her face, in her eyes. She looks down at the table, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath to centre herself.

"No, he isn't seeing anyone now. He hasn't seriously dated in the last few years. He kinda…just goes through the motions."

She knows that feeling. She knows it all too well. And she hurts for him. She expected she'd feel vindicated, powerful, satisfied, but knowing he's suffering too all she wants is for his suffering to end. He doesn't deserve to suffer. He's had enough pain. She can wear it for the both of them.

"Truly, Alexis, I don't what else I can tell you." Her voice catches.

"No, it's OK. I had…I had high hopes for you. And him. You made him happy, happier than I've ever seen him at times. But life isn't a fairytale, I learned that lesson fairly early in my childhood. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

A fresh wave of guilt wracks her. It's not his fault, but Alexis has grown up in the wake of two failed marriages and their own failed…thing. She probably has no choice but to be cynical about relationships in her life. His daughter doesn't really know the alternative, not viscerally, not deep down in her heart. At least she's had her parents' marriage as an example, before her mother's death.

"Please, don't…"

A short, sharp bark of laughter.

"Not a chance Detective. Not a chance I am mentioning you in his presence." The statement isn't bitter, just matter-of-fact. That makes it hurt worse, somehow.

And then she walks out, the stepdaughter she could've had, now just another piece of wreckage from the fallout. She considers packing up her things and going home, its 4pm on a Friday, even Gates would understand.

She heads back to the precinct.

* * *

_A fair few questions in the reviews about how this AU diverges and what happens. Don't worry, it will become clear. It's a big part of the plot and we'll be flashing back to it._

_Thanks for the reviews by the way, and keep them coming if you like the story._


	3. Chapter 3

**THEN**

The door thuds shut behind him. Rage courses through her, pure fury at his presumption, at his arrogance that he would ask her to walk away from her mother's case, that he claims to know what's best for her.

They've been partners for five years, but that doesn't give him the right…

He loves her.

He's asked her that if she feels anything for him at all…

She does, of course. How could she not. He shows up week-in, week-out, to stand by her side, coffee in hand. He picks her up when she falls down, and writes books that even she acknowledges are all but love letters to her. She trusts him. Wants him. Love? She doesn't know what love is, really. She's shied away from it her whole life. But with this man, she might've found it.

He makes her smile, makes her laugh, makes her forget her worries in the world. Helps shoulder her burdens, and trusts her with his own in turn. He is steadfast, and brave, and clever. He appreciates her power and her intelligence, isn't intimidated by it. He can turn her on with a single look. They just fit. Fit into each other's lives like two interlocking pieces.

But he's betrayed her trust tonight, torn the underpinnings of all she thought she knew about him from under her, and she's afloat on a sea of emotion, rudderless.

What do you do when you need your anchor, but he's walked out of your life?

She doesn't know if this breach can be repaired. She's thrown him out in the past, fits of rage over his meddling, over her mother's case. He came back. He's never chosen to leave before.

The way his eyes looked at her, bleak and solemn and painful. The way his voice trembled, this gentle giant of a man who deflects most people and most emotions with that devil-may-care façade, making himself vulnerable for her…it strikes a chord in her. But the anger and her need for justice washes over it.

She wants him, but not as much as she wants her mother's murder solved. That has been the single defining cause in her life for so many years now, and the solution is tantalisingly close. Her detective's intuition can sense it.

He might love her, but right now that's not enough. Once she solves her mother's murder, she can revisit that. But right now, she has a war to prosecute.

* * *

She chases Maddox up on to the roof. Her mistake. The blood rushing through her veins, the adrenalin coursing through her, her thirst for the man who hired him overriding her training, her ability to think through situations

He gets the drop on her, and she's losing the fight right from the start. He's bigger, faster, stronger, better trained, a special forces veteran. The mocking tone in his voice as he taunts her is justified.

It's over in seconds. She hangs from the rooftop by her fingertips, him crouched over her, ready to finish her off.

Time slows to a crawl. She's going to die here. She can feel it.

A single gunshot rings out.

Blood blooms on Maddox's chest. A second shot, a double tap. He drops to the ground, undecipherable sound bubbling out of him.

"CASTLEEEEEEEE?" It's the only name she can think to scream. He has to have come back for her. Watched her back. He's her partner. He would do this.

The sound of running footsteps, then the bloodied face of Esposito as he peers over the ledge and grabs her arm.

"He didn't knock me out. Chump."

"Thanks, Espo." She just sits next to the body for a minute, regaining her breath. Espo rifles through it in expert fashion. Nothing. Nothing useful.

They meet Ryan, Gates and the SWAT at the door. Almost a farcical moment.

Still, success papers over most sins, and she and Espo get a rap over the knuckles. It could've been worse. She isn't even suspended, thankfully.

The next day, Detectives Chu and Wilson over at the 6th Precinct catch a case. Michael Smith, retired lawyer, tortured then killed with a single gunshot to the head. There is no physical evidence, and with the body dumped in an alley, no leads ever turn up in the next few weeks or months. Eventually the death is attributed to gangland violence, an elderly man in the wrong place at the wrong time and the case is filed as cold.

She never finds out who he is.

* * *

A dark, shadowy DC office. An untraceable burner phone rings.

"Is it done?"

"Maddox got the information, but was killed before he could do anything with Beckett. The back-up team took care of Smith. We believe we have destroyed all copies of the file."

"Believe?"

"If Smith hid them elsewhere, no one's ever finding out."

"And Beckett…can the back-up team take care of her now?"

"They can, but I recommend no move sir."

"Why?"

"She has no evidence. She has no leads. She has nothing. According to our surveillance on her apartment, her partnership with Castle may well be over. Kill her now and everything ties back to her mother's case. Castle could kick up a fuss, get the FBI involved- hell she's friendly with Jordan Shaw. No need for those kinds of complications. Best to let her keep butting her head against a wall."

"I…see."

"Will that be all?"

"Yes."

* * *

_I've always considered the events of 'Always' to be the pivotal/defining moment in their relationship. Their emotions are out in the open, and Beckett finally has her grand epiphany to match Castle's one from the previous finale bringing them on the same page. _

_So when I was playing around with idea of what could've gone wrong, that was definitely episode that came first to mind. __More flashbacks in future chapters to fully explore what happened, don't worry. Leave a review if you want to see them. _

_Note: I have no issues with anon reviews and people thinking my writing of Beckett is OOC, but I'll be damned if I let people bash by saying having a healthy sexual appetite and exercising it makes her slut. All such reviews will be deleted. _


	4. Chapter 4

The meeting with Alexis should've allowed her to move on, she thought. It did the opposite. It brings his spectre into sharper focus, makes his absence at her side only more evident. It shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't feel like this. Not any more, not three years on…but it does. The dull ache throbs even more painfully inside her.

She fingers her phone. She deleted his number. She remembers it off by heart.

But she also remembers very clearly their last words to each other. She can't call him. She won't. Not like this, not after three years, not for an awkward, stilted conversation that will have no chance of going anywhere.

Not to mention the last time she called that phone, he didn't take her call.

She turns, in her time of pain, as she always does, to her mother's murder. The rabbit hole. He'd likened it to a drug addiction once, something she can curl herself up in to inure her to rest of the world. The irony is that it was his words, his love, which had told her that maybe he was right, maybe there was something more to live for. But then the fact he'd lied had swept all of that out from under her.

She pores over the case at home on Sunday afternoon, when normal people are out living life. In another lifetime, she'd be at Castle's loft maybe, drinking coffee, lounging with his head in her lap, watching bad sci-fi movies. Or they'd be out, away for the weekend in the Hamptons, or…

Instead she's looking at Maddox's fake identity, his perfect, unbreakable cover, looking for anything she might've missed in the previous 2093 times she's gone over this with a fine-tooth comb. There is nothing. There can't be nothing. But there is. No indication of who was paying, of why they'd come after her with Maddox now, who her mysterious benefactor was and why he'd disappeared. Why they'd never come after her again. All she's left with is more questions than ever before, questions that never make any sense.

Ghost-Castle prods her into getting up after a couple of hours, making herself a cup of tea.

This is why she can't call him, caught in this madman's land, this limbo between her love and the defining event in her life, one that even therapy hasn't helped her conquer. He might've. He might've helped pull her out of the hole, but he hasn't, and there is a small, irrational part of her that blames him for it. Another, larger part can't blame him for walking away from away from the mess she is, and blames herself for letting him do it.

The knot of emotions inside her concerning Richard Castle is complex, tightly woven and inextricable part of her.

If only she could fix herself. She's broken, and never going to get better.

The ring of her phone startles her. Few people call her. She's drifted away from her wider circle of friends, keeps in touch with only her work-family and a few core others, most of whom knew her before her mother's death. Who can remember the girl she used to be and still cling on for the potential of the woman she could be.

The ring of the phone startles her because she would not expect anyone to call her on Sunday afternoon.

"Hi, Kate?" The warm and mellifluous tone is definitely unexpected.

"Jenny?"

"Are you busy? Am I interrupting something?"

"No, no it's fine. I was just…reading." The lie feels pathetic even in her ear.

"Well, Kevin and I have brought MJ into the city for a day out. We're not far from your place. Want to join us for an ice-cream or something?"

Her instincts scream no, for her to dive back into the pile of evidence, or lack thereof, gathered in the spare bedroom. She struggles to override those instincts. Her instincts are terrible, outside of her job.

"Sure. Name a place and give me 10 minutes to get ready?"

* * *

Michael Javier Ryan, known as MJ to all and sundry, has inherited his father's sunny disposition and wide smile., and his mother's blonde hair.

He sits easily on her lap as they sit at the café, playing with the brightly coloured pair of spoons his mother has given him.

"Thanks for sending him home on time most days. I really appreciate it." Jenny flashes a smile at her husband as she speaks, who blushes a little.

"No problem." She does make sure he gets out of the precinct as on time as possible, these days, picking up some of his paperwork if she needs. Espo does too, though he has a good-natured grumble about it more often than she does, especially on a date night with Lanie. They are on-again. She has high hopes for them, this time around, Espo and Lanie.

_Esplanie_, Ghost-Castle chimes in.

She kisses the top of MJ's head before she leaves, and quashes any internal lament about how nice it felt to have him in her arms, in her lap for the last hour or so.

Regrets…she has a few.

* * *

_Liking the frequent updates? Keep the reviews coming. _

_I know I'm not going easy on Beckett, but stick with it. Things will get better. _

_Part of the question I wanted to explore was what if they didn't have these "easy" life-threatening moments in which they realised their feelings for each other. What if they had to do it the old-fashioned way, through pain and toil and suffering like we all do in the real world. What then?_


	5. Chapter 5

Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Surely that's all it is.

It is three weeks from her father's birthday, and she wants to get him something nice. Research on the internet has led her here to the Colton Art Gallery, a small, specialized place that focuses on art with a sporting theme where she immediately heads to the baseball section.

It is the last place she expects to meet one of his ex-wives.

"Detective Beckett? Kate?" She whirls around at the sound of her name, eyes falling on the petite blonde woman approaching her from the rear of the gallery.

"Gina. Been a long time." They shake hands quickly, firmly. The blonde is perfectly coiffed and made-up as she always is, every strand of hair in place, impeccable and high-priced Louis Vuitton bag discretely tucked under her elbow.

"How are you? What are you doing here?" There is a genuine warmth to Gina's voice, that she hasn't expected. She last heard from the woman just before Ryan and Jenny's wedding, calling exasperatedly at the precinct to chase down chapters she was owed because he wasn't answering his mobile. Bemusedly she'd told the woman she hadn't seen hide nor hair of him that day. Under that lurks the darker, more painful memory of watching him walk away, arm slung around Gina's shoulders that painful second year of their partnership.

She puts all that aside.

"Oh, just shopping for a present. And you? Didn't know you had a taste for sports-themed art?"

"My fiancé owns the place. Brad Colton. Let me know if you like something, I'll get you a discount." The friendliness in Gina's tone is genuine, and her emotions are skittering all over the place, not quite sure what to do here, feeling like Bambi on ice.

"Oh, ahh, thanks. I'm just looking right now."

Gina nods, and her eyes are warm and inviting and her curiosity overwhelms for an instant, just long enough to override any impropriety.

"How's…how's his new book coming along?" She doesn't need to specify who she is talking about the. The way her voice catches is all the indication that is necessary.

Gina's eyes soften, and the same look of pity that washed over Alexis washes over her. This is how pathetic she's become, reduced to begging for scraps of information from a woman she should hate, one who should hate her.

"Oh Kate." A soft grimace twists over the shorter woman's features. "There is no new book. He hasn't written anything in a while."

"But…the Derrick Storm?"

"An old manuscript, mostly-finished, that I badgered and badgered him into finishing up. He refused to sign the book deal Black Pawn had put on his table. Smart boy."

She can't breathe for a second. So this is how he's reacted. She's drowned herself in her work. He's reacted in the opposite manner. How very Castle and Beckett of them.

"Kate…listen." Gina reaches out with a hand, squeezes her forearm briefly. The contact is reassuring and unsettling all at the same time. "I know we've never been on the best of terms. That's OK. Understandable. But time heals a lot of wounds."

Gina glances towards the back of the gallery, where a tall, slim, blonde man has just walked out, immaculately decked out in expensive and fashionable clothing. The look he directs at Gina though, that is filled only with love.

"And so does my upcoming wedding I suppose." Gina looks back at her, nodding ruefully. "Rick and I were never in love. We just…thought we were compatible. He was my star, handsome writer looking to settle down and provide a stable family life for his daughter. I was the editor who had an excellent relationship with him professionally. We got along well enough. On paper it was great. Alas, even writers don't live their lives on paper."

She stays silent. She has no answer to this. This conversation which she imagined having once, with him, asking about the hows and whys of his marriages.

"And the second time around…well I was just an idiot to go to the Hamptons with him. Especially when I was editing the books that he was writing about you, the books that were all but screaming how much he was falling in love with you. Knew that was doomed the moment he went back to work with you at the precinct, subconsciously at least."

She nods. It's all she can do to nod. That missed moment, that invitation to the Hamptons- that regret daggers through her again, an old friend who often visits.

"Now, I don't know what happened between the two of you three years ago, and it certainly isn't my place to ask. But whatever happened between us, I'm still fond of Rick. I always will be. And three years on, he isn't getting better, and if that stony-faced, glassy-eyed look you're giving me is any indication, neither are you really."

Gina steps away, into the embrace of her fiancé who has come up behind her, settled an arm around her shoulders.

"So Kate, for God's sake, fix it. Fix whatever is broken. Because he deserves you, and you deserve him."

And then she watches Gina walk away from her again, a man's arm wrapped around her, and the mirroring, the symbolism from that dark day when she had watched him be the man doesn't escape her.

But she can't fix what's broken. She's what is broken, and she's beyond fixing.

* * *

_A few of you have asked for Castle's POV chapters. We'll meet Castle soon, and we'll definitely get to hear his side of the story, but I won't deviate from using Beckett as the POV character._

_Sorry._

_Keep them reviews coming to see the next chapter soon!_


	6. Chapter 6

She meets Lanie for lunch later in the week, at her friend's request.

"Hey girl, how're you doing? Been ages since we caught up."

"Oh you know, keeping busy. My new yoga teacher is very good, punishingly so."

Lanie stirs her fork in her salad, something obviously on her mind.

"What's up, Lanie? Javi put his foot in his mouth again? Date night gone wrong?"

The other woman looks up at her sharply, still surprised at how easily she can be read, then smiles. They've had this telepathic intuition about each other for years now, just a sense of what might be happening, what is happening in each other's lives.

"No, actually. He asked me to move in with him."

Oh. Lanie's always been one to run from commitment. That's been one of the core reasons they've never quite managed to make it stick.

"…and you said?"

"I'd think about it."

"And are you?"

"I'm here at lunch talking to you, girl. That counts."

A small smile steals briefly over her face. It definitely counts. Brings back memories of the many conversations they've shared over the years, over wine, over dead bodies, over dinner and forensic evidence. About Josh, and Espo, and…Castle. Mostly about Castle. The one that's stuck most vividly in her mind is the one about the holding pattern. Lanie had been right. The fuel had run out on that one, and it had ended in one spectacular crash-and-burn.

"So, are you going to do it?" She asks just to get her mind off that unpleasant thought.

"I think…I think so." The words escape her friend's mouth in a rush as if she just needs to get them off her chest, verbalise them, become okay with them. "It's time, you know?"

"Yeah, it sure is." She grins at Lanie, offering her silent support and reassurance, knowing she doesn't need to talk her into anything more, that Lanie will get there by herself, as she always does.

"What about you, anything interesting or new I should know about?"

She debates herself internally whether to talk to Lanie about this or not. He has been a taboo topic for them over the last few years, Lanie having talked herself hoarse giving her advice about how to deal with things. But still.

"Yeah, I've been having a weird sort of month, Lanie."

"Weird how?"

"You know that lecture I gave at Columbia at the start of the month? I ran into Alexis there."

Lanie fixes her with one of her patented looks, all curiosity but at the same time reproval for not having come clean earlier. A month earlier.

"And?"

"It was strange, but not as strange as I'd imagined. She wasn't as angry as I thought she'd be…more sorry about how everything ended."

"So were we all. So are we all."

"And then, get this, because the universe has a cruel sense of humour- I ran into Gina and her new fiancé earlier this week."

"Ex-wife number two and editor Gina?"

"Yes. Apparently he's not writing. She wants me to fix it between us." A small, sad bubble of laughter escapes her at the sentence. Fix it, like it was a just a light-bulb that needed changing or something. "Talk about the last person to be giving advice on Castle."

Lanie sighs.

"Kate. It's been three years. What if this isn't the universe being cruel? What if it is the universe giving you a sign? You tried to move on. You haven't. You can't. You tried to do things the 'right' way. It hasn't worked. Why not try to do them the wrong way? Why not try to fix things?"

"Yeah but Lanie…"

"I know, I know. He asked you to put him above your mother's case."

"He had no right." The words, once strident and fiery in her throat, now just sound trite and tired. She wonders if she even believes that mantra any more. It seems to depend on which side of the bed she's gotten out of each day.

"Do you even believe that any more? I know things weren't ever easy between you two, but damn if there wasn't something that was worth the struggle and pain waiting at the end. We could all see it. We could see it in the way he looked at you, the way you never could not laugh at his jokes or engage with his banter. It was real."

"I was just waiting…"

"To be ready, yeah. But are we ever really ready? Or sometimes do we just have to throw caution to the wind and go after what we want anyway?" Lanie raises an eyebrow at her, emphasising the rhetorical nature of the question.

She toys with her fork in response, unable to do anything but shrug. Because if the last three years have provided any evidence to her, it's all in overwhelming support of Lanie's point.

"All I know, Kate, is that he made you happy. And ever since he left you or you left him, whichever damn way you want to spin that, you've been utterly miserable. I know we don't speak about him anymore because damn you stubborn, girl, so this is my last word on the subject for today. Reach out to him."

She walks away from lunch with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it is certainly not the food.

* * *

_You know the formula- more reviews = faster updates. _

_I don't want to address any concerns explicitly, just keep reading and let things unfold. Remember that all characters are unreliable narrators to some extent. _


	7. Chapter 7

Three times is enemy action. Or somewhere, whoever is in charge of her fate is laughing at her vindictively. It definitely isn't the charm.

She gets the call from Espo as she's walking out of the shower, nothing more than a brief report of a body at the Hotel Grand Meridien, an address and a notification that Lanie is already on her way to the crime scene. It's close to midnight and she was almost ready to go to bed, but they're on duty team and unfortunately homicide rarely respects bed times.

There is a follow up text from Espo but she's weaving through traffic in her cruiser, and doesn't have to check it till she gets to the crime scene, but by the time she gets there she's forgotten. It still feels strange to be alone in the cruiser sometimes. Occasionally Ghost-Castle will chime in with a hummed tune, but usually here most of all she feels his absence palpably. The hours they spent in this car, talking about everything and nothing. Where she first decided to tell him about her mother. Where he saved her life for the umpteenth time in the river. This small, enclosed space which came to hold a mix of both their scents, to the point that driving in it had felt painful for the first six months.

It's drizzling when she arrives, cold and dark late at night, and she cinches her coat tighter in response. Her hair is still a damp mess, and pulled into a messy bun. No time for niceties when a body drops like that, it's pull your clothes on and go time.

The crime scene is cordoned off, as usual, a tiny little alleyway behind the hotel. She pauses for a moment, lets her eyes rove over the scene, letting her instincts guide her to any hitherto unnoticed yet important details. She can see Lanie crouched over the body a little way down. Ryan is talking to one of the uniforms, probably the first cop on the scene, taking intense notes in his little notebook. Esposito isn't here, probably out canvassing witnesses. An open door spills light out, obviously leading out from the hotel's kitchen or laundry or whatever it is inside.

Long enough. She strides forward towards the body.

"Hey honey, you OK? Ready for this?"

Her mouth twists into a moue of surprise at Lanie's words. She has worked hundreds of homicides. Of course she is.

"Sure. Tell me about the victim."

"Female, mid-40s. Single GSW to the head. No signs of violence or trauma. I'd put time of death at around 11pm." A quick check of her watch. Half past midnight. The victim is dressed in an elegant evening gown that probably cost her monthly salary, golden hair pinned back into a beautiful bun. Expensive necklace left untaken. Not a robbery, at least.

Ryan comes, concern written on his face too. She cuts him off before he can say anything.

"What did the uniforms say?"

"Nothing really. Got here like half an hour ago, cordoned off the area, searched for any witnesses. No one saw anything or anyone leave the alley."

"Doesn't mean anything." She nods at the door. "Who discovered the body?"

"One of the hotel staff. The hotel is hosting a political-cum-charitable fundraiser which the victim was attending. Victoria Kruger, she's working on one of the campaigns." He checks his notes. "Jeremy Compton's."

"OK, I'm going to find Espo." She steps towards the open door, finally remembering the follow-up text from Esposito as she does so. Unlocks her phone and reads it.

_Heads up Beckett. Castle's here and is one of the witnesses._

She stumbles. She never stumbles in her heels, not even once, and yet. She stumbles.

Looks up to find him right there, right there just inside the goddamn doorway, his eyes looking straight at her. She's wondered how he'd look at her for three years now. Whether she'd see anger, sorrow, desperation, hatred, fear. Whether he'd ever look at her again the way he used to, look at her like she lit up his world, which made him light up hers.

She never expected this.

Dull, lifeless, washed-out blue eyes.

Gone was the sparkle that had drawn her in against her will the first time around. Gone was the nine-year-old on a sugar rush who she'd found equally exasperating and endearing.

And yet she can't look away. She can literally feel the hunger in her gaze as she drinks the sight of him in, every inch of his tall, strong frame (he's lost some weight), the way his tux fits perfectly across the broad planes of his chest, the first inklings of grey in his hair (it is new, and it is ridiculously attractive). He breaks eye contact first, with a brief shake of his head. Is that disappointment she reads in that gesture? Or is she merely projecting what she thinks he's feeling…

"Beckett." Espo butts in.

She's glad for the distraction, but her eyes betray her, reluctant to leave Castle's broad form, now pulling out his phone. She can't see if he's texting or simply playing Angry Birds.

"Tell me." Her voice is raspy.

"Vic was talking to Castle at the fundraiser gala thing around 10:30 or 40. She got a phone call that made her distraught and excuse herself from the conversation. He saw her head here towards the kitchen. Waited for her to come back. When she didn't, he asked one of the wait staff to go look for her. Body was reported at 11:15."

"Did the wait or kitchen staff see anything?"

"They saw her walk through to the alley on the phone. No one saw anyone walk in afterwards."

"Trace her phone records. Quickly. Maybe we can find the mystery caller tonight. Maybe they're the killer."

"Warrant is already out."

"Thanks, Espo." Her eyes centre back on Castle. She squares her shoulders and draws in a deep breath. Time to do this.

"Listen…I can do the interview with Ryan. You don't have to put yourself through this."

She shakes her head briefly, once. She's the lead detective. This is her job. She is very good at her job. It is the only wholly good thing left in her life and she'll be damned if she lets him (or herself, really) rob her of that.

* * *

_I know a lot of you have been waiting for Castle to re-enter. Me too, frankly. _

_Reviews brings quicker updates, as ever._


	8. Chapter 8

**THEN**

The tongue-lashing that Gates gives them for flouting regs is gruelling and long, and she's tired- not just physically tired, from having the crap beaten out of her by Maddox, but also emotionally thanks to the rollercoaster ride the last few days have been.

And yet all she wants to do is be with him.

But he walked out on her. Away from her.

Outside the precinct, the rain is drumming hard on the streets now. They have to talk again, but what can she say? That she's been going to therapy to become better? That she wants to be worthy of his affections, but isn't there yet? That she has a whole slew of new leads on her mother's case thanks to Maddox, that she can't walk away from? That she needs him to be by her side, as ever.

It seems like a lifetime ago now, but before this case tore them apart, she was actually supposed to be at his loft tonight. For a "movie night" featuring a John Woo double-header. A first date, in other words. Except, well, when the two of them had been having this quasi-relationship for so long already, it wasn't really a "first" date. Just time, maybe to move their relationship along. And yet after the fight at her apartment she almost felt like they were back at square one, deception and lack of communication serving as insurmountable a barrier as ever.

She calls him. He doesn't pick up.

She considers going over to his loft straight away, right now, but it's late and she's tired and…maybe it's best if they have some time to cool off before they speak again.

She goes home instead. She takes a copy of the Maddox file.

He calls her back the next day, but she's in the middle of a meeting and can't pick up.

She goes to his house the day after that.

His eyes are solemn, grim almost when he opens the door to her, half a head taller than her even though she's wearing her heels. She's come directly from work.

"Beckett." Back to being just Beckett. That is not a good sign. "What do you want?"

"I don't know." The answer slips out of her before she can think about it, before she can come up with something better, something stronger.

His reply is a small, mirthless laugh. "How very…you."

"I just want to talk, Castle. We need to talk." He's still standing in the entryway, blocking her entrance to his loft. His life. For a moment she's petrified that he'll simply slam the door in her face, but then something inside him gives, and for a moment a look of warmth steals over his features and her Castle is back. He steps back and gestures her inside.

By the time she's taken off her coat and turned around to look at him, the mask is back on, but that brief look gives her hope.

"Listen, Castle…I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied to you about…knowing what you said that day. I was just trying to find a way to heal myself. Make myself better. For you. For us." She's practiced this part of the speech in the mirror today, at least 10 times. The words come out without too much stumbling, but her heart catches in her throat nonetheless.

His eyes darken to a deeper shade of blue, pinning her feet to the floor.

"And are you? Better?" His voice is rough.

"I think I still need to…still need to solve my mother's murder first." She's spent the last two night poring over's Maddox's file. Maybe he can help, maybe he can spot something she missed. A pattern, an anomaly. He's good at that. He belongs next to her.

"You don't."

"Castle, I-"

"You don't need to be perfect. You don't need to fix yourself. You don't need to do anything but tell me you'll put me first, put us first, like I put you first. Like I've been doing for the last four years." His voice runs roughshod over her.

"My mom's case has driven me, given me purpose, and defined me over the last half of my life. I can't just…walk away."

"Yes. It's made you Kate the cop. Kate the seeker of justice. But don't you want to be more? Kate the lover. Kate the wife, Kate the mom?" His voice wavers, breaks on the last two phrases. Her stomach leaps because he's right, it is what she has always dreamt of but imagined to be out of reach.

"I do, but I can only do it after I solve it."

"What if you never solve it?"

"Don't say that! I have good leads. You could help me!"

He exhales slowly, then turns away from her, hands braced on the kitchen bench they've been arguing next to. She can read him just as well as he can read her, and she can tell he's angry and getting angrier. She doesn't understand why. Can't he see what she wants is best for them? That if they did this together, if they just did this one thing, then he could have…they could have what they wanted.

"I still dream about that day, you know." His voice is cool, clipped. Channelling that anger. "At the funeral. You in your uniform. The glint in the sun. I dream about it, and all I dream about is being there millisecond quicker. Reacting faster. I dream about taking a bullet for you, Kate. This case…this is the bullet you should take for me. For us. To be happy together. I need to know you want that the most."

Her knees tremble.

"I don't know if I can, Rick. I don't know if I can do that."

"Then leave." He won't look at her. He stares resolutely out of his window. "Leave, and don't come back till you know. But don't expect me to wait for you."

When she leaves, she feels like she's walking out on her future for her past. It is an ugly, sick feeling inside.

She can conquer it once she solves her mother's case. She can.

* * *

_Bit of bad news guys. Computer issues last night. No worries with the file, it was backed up and all, just that writing is going to go slower for the next few days till I have the new part I need in hand._

_Still, do keep the reviews coming and I'll do what I can about updating as often as possible. This was the hardest chapter to write, so far, and I pared back the argument a lot because the Caskett fights in show aren't long and drawn out. They're short, sharp and to the point. I was trying to go for the same feeling. _


	9. Chapter 9

He doesn't make eye contact with her when she approaches. He looks up from his phone, but stares resolutely over her shoulder.

This is hardly how she'd imagined this reunion going. She'd thought about it, dreamed about it, fantasised about it. She had planned elaborate scenarios in her head.

Him refusing to look at her had not featured in any of them.

"Castle."

Finally he bears those twin blue pools over to her. They aren't quite as lifeless as they were before. There's something glinting inside them now. She doesn't know what it is yet, but it is better than nothing.

"Beckett." Not Detective at least, that was something. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

"Like this?"

"At crime scenes. I make this the third time. People will talk. You'll have to arrest me for real."

The jocularity is forced. He's sliding that Richard Castle funny-playboy persona in between them, a shield to hold her at bay. She can't blame him really.

"Third time's the charm. Maybe this time you'll have done it."

"Not guilty."

"Tell me." She puts a note of steel in her voice, turning the conversation serious. Whatever else she is, at the site of a homicide, she is a cop first and foremost.

"I was talking to Victoria inside, I guess around 10:30 or 10:40. She got a phone call, and she took it once she saw the number. That surprised me." He frowns as he recalls the memory. "She wasn't one to interrupt a conversation with a potential donor to take a call."

"And then?"

"Her face went white. Like she'd heard really bad news. I figured it was something personal. She excused herself, and left towards the direction of the kitchen. After about 20 minutes I got a bit worried, and asked one of the waitstaff to look for her in the back." He shrugs, eyes drifting sideways. Not quite telling the whole story.

"Why did you get worried?"

"Well, we were in the middle of a fairly important conversation, I expected her to come back to finish it."

"What was it about?"

"You."

She rocks back on her heels, gazing at him forcefully. She didn't know she was a topic of discussion when he was talking to attractive blonde women.

"Relax. She was asking if I knew someone trustworthy inside the NYPD. She had some troubling information and wanted to go with it to only someone who wouldn't…half-ass it or sweep it under the rug."

A small glimmer of a smile washes over her at that- that despite all that has happened between them, he would still trust her with something important like this.

"So what did you do when she left?"

"Wandered over to join a conversation between Congressman Morales and Daniel Waters. You might have heard of him. He only runs the FDNY. Very appropriate name for a fireman, I've always thought."

"Jokes later, Castle. Did she tell what she wanted to talk to the police about?"

"Not a hint."

"And what was your…relationship to Ms. Kruger?"

She tries to keep her voice cool and collected. She fails.

There is a painful smirk lurking there in his features. The juxtaposition makes the dull ache, muted ever since she's back in his company, throb painfully. Ghost-Castle, she also notes, has vanished in the real one's presence.

"Jealous, Beckett? It used to be cute. It isn't any more."

"C'mon Castle, you know I have to ask you this."

"We weren't sleeping together. Or dating."

"So?"

"I'm kind of a family friend, through her sister Elizabeth. Who I did date, a long time ago, between marriages. We'd lost touch because Victoria had moved to DC for her job, but then when she moved back to New York last year, she got back in touch. At first semi-professionally for her political work and soliciting donations, but we were…friendly."

"What was she like?"

"Smart. Driven. Ambitious. Not afraid to get her hands dirty with political in-fighting. She came back to run Jer Compton's bid for the Senate against Bracken, and she was going to fight hard for that seat."

He shrugs again, those broad shoulders lifting and falling in unison, distracting her momentarily. Her eyes drop down to his lips for just a bare nanosecond, but he notices. Damn the man but he notices.

"In truth, we hadn't really got on all that well all those years ago, but I guess I'd changed and so had she in that time. Whatever her flaws, she didn't deserve this."

"Married? Boyfriend? Kids?"

"Wife. Emma Karpinski. Architect. Away at a conference, Victoria told me, till next week. No kids."

"We'll track her down." The worst part of the job, really.

He nods, acknowledging how tough that is and then raises an eyebrow in that familiar manner, silently questioning her if she has anything else to ask him. She does. So much. And yet, this isn't the right place or time. They always had this knack for not needing words to communicate…a knack that had led them into trouble in the past, because sometimes the words are necessary, are vital, and they just get stuck in her throat.

"Listen Castle, you'll have to give an official statement down at the precinct. Why don't I give you a ride?"

She entreats him to say yes with her eyes, the only way she knows how. For an agonising second it seems he's going to refuse, going to avoid her, going to back away and her heart creaks inside her…

"Okay."

It's relentless, the power this man has over her. Three years later, and with one word he can make her or break her.

She can't stop the smile, the relief from spreading over her face, and for the first time tonight, since they've met again, she thinks that maybe he has an answering one.

* * *

_Don't worry, they aren't going to immediately jump each other. Plenty more talking to come. No easy resolutions._

_Thank you, by the way, for all the reviews. I keep meaning to send out individual messages, but I get distracted by real life and actually writing the fic. I figure you guys will excuse that. Keep the coming, because they definitely help me forge ahead._


	10. Chapter 10

The silence is stifling at the start. They've had silences in the car in the past, of course, even with Castle's incessant need to chatter, but they've been companionable silences. Comfortable silences. This is anything but. The weight of all that has been said, and all that lies unsaid, lies above them, pushing down on them.

He stares out the passenger's window, forcing her to make the first move.

"So...when's the next book come out?" It's a cheap ploy by her, she knows, but she can't think of anything better and frankly she just needs to say something, anything, to dispel the cloying silence around them before it becomes too strong, too heavy to confront.

He turns to look at her, and she lets her eyes drift briefly to meet his, green against blue. He's probably seen right through her, but chooses not to acknowledge it right now at least.

"Taking a little break right now."

"Oh yeah?"

"For a dues-paying, newsletter-receiving member of the Richard Castle fanclub you are remarkably ill-informed."

"Stopped paying the dues."

"No you didn't."

It's still strained, the back-and-forth. They don't have to reach for it, or try, but it's not easy like it used to be. It has traverse the rocky road of their past, and that is extra pressure on it, extra load. The struts of it creak.

"I took a break." His voice is suddenly serious, suddenly bleak. "Didn't mean to at the start, just…didn't have it in me. Then after I moped around a bit, Alexis took herself off to Barcelona for an exchange semester."

She encourages him softly to go on.

"I went to visit her- and all of a sudden realised I had no ties to New York for the moment. And I'd always wanted to travel. Never had the chance in my 20s. So I took off. Around Europe, through Asia. Did the Trans-Siberian, hiked in the Himalayas. I'd done book tours and junkets before, but never by myself, never gone off the beaten track." He pauses for a moment, searching for the right word, the right emotion. He might not be writing right now, but the wordsmith in him well never be far from the surface. "It was liberating."

"How long?"

"Oh most of a year. I came home expecting to see the loft trashed, but really mother had done quite a good job of keeping things together. And then Alexis was back too."

"But no writing."

He looks at her again. This time she keeps her eyes on the road. She can feel his bore into her, read her. Like he always could, like the first time they'd met, when he'd figured out why she was a cop in the span of five minutes. She'd never felt so vulnerable, so honest before in her life. In a way it was freeing that she didn't have to tell the bare bones of her story. That he knew. Maybe it was one reason she hadn't kicked up too much fuss about letting him stay.

"No. I mean I thought about it. Did a few plot outlines and stuff, but it wasn't coming. Then a friend of mine called me up. The CUNY creative writing program had an emergency and needed someone in a pinch, asked if I was interested. It seemed like a new and interesting challenge so…"

"Professor Castle. Can't quite picture it somehow."

"It was fun. More fun than I imagined. I'd never envisioned myself to be a teacher, but once I got into the groove of it…"

"And all those lovely young students with a handsome professor to crush on." She can't quite keep the hint of jealousy from creeping into her voice. It's ridiculous. Usually her iron self-control is something she prides herself on. Around him it's more rusty than anything.

"Please. I don't date down to my daughter's age group, thank you." He looks across at her again, more sharply, as if coming to some sort of conclusion. "Are you trying to tell me you're seeing someone Beckett? Is that what this is about?"

She can't help it. All her not-so-subtle detective hints have come to this farce. A small snort of laughter escapes her before she can help it, and he looks at her sheepishly after that.

"OK, dumb question."

"No Castle, I'm not…I haven't really for a while."

He doesn't say anything to that, and the silence settles in again. Less stifling this time. Not quite comfortable, but something in between.

The rain continues to drizzle on the windows, the windscreen. They're almost at the precinct.

"I tried." His voice is a steely whisper, a knife in the night.

"What?"

"To get over you. Move on. Date."

It feels like a punch to her gut, like Maddox again, raining down blows on her. She invited this. Invited this conversation. Invited him into her car, into their sacred space. She was wrong. They shouldn't have done it. She's not ready to hear the story of how he gets over her. She never will be.

"Never saw you on Page Six." She tries to keep her tone jovial, light, content. It's none of those things.

He gives her a long, measured look. There's something a little angry, a little waspish in those blue eyes now, blue eyes she doesn't look at because she could lose herself in them. Has in the past. Has in her dreams.

"Give me a little credit. Give yourself a bit too, while you're at it." He bites off the words, as if he doesn't quite believe they're necessary, as if he's having to spell out something for her that she should get intuitively because…well because he's Castle and she's Beckett and that's all the explanation that's ever been necessary.

She waits him out, pulling into the precinct garage and turning off the engine, but not getting out. Half-turning to look at him.

"No more- what did you call them? Oh yeah. No more bimbettes and celebutantes...I find my tastes a bit more refined now. Intelligent, complex, forceful, powerful women. I can't imagine who might've set the template like that." His eyes drill into her, like blue laser beams pinning her in her seat. Her breath is caught in her throat. How can he do that to her still with his words, make a sentence like that a paean to her and yet cut her to the core with it.

She has no reply, no witty comeback to his brutal honesty and the fierce spark in his eyes. He gives her a moment, then exits the car. She can live with it. Better ferocity than nothing.

* * *

_Just to be clear, full flashback chapters are headed with a _**THEN **_at the start. Just to clear up any confusion. Other chapters might have Beckett reminiscing, but they won't be full flashbacks._

_Reviews are great and I'm loving the speculation about the story and the case. Keep it coming, and I'll keep trying to pump the chapters out!_


	11. Chapter 11

She leaves him with one of the uniforms, giving his statement. He didn't actually have to come in right now, in the middle of the night. He could've gone home, rested, come in the next day. He knows that, and she knows he knows. He also didn't say goodbye to anyone at the fundraiser, didn't have a date who had to be told what was going on. He probably noticed her noticing that too. She's the detective, the one with the observation skills, the one who knows how to put the pieces of the puzzle together. But he knows her. He observes her. That's always been their dance, their moves, his counterpoint to her.

One of the worst parts of her job is waiting for her on her desk. Espo and Ryan are setting up the murderboard, the timeline, the pictures. She has a contact number for the wife in Rome. The worst way to wake up in the world. She handles the call as she always does, with empathy tinging her professionalism. The woman is genuinely distraught and straight away looking to take the next flight back home. She jots down the contact details for more family, then wishes her a safe flight. She'll need to do a longer interview with Karpinski when she's back, but only in person can other questions be asked, not over the phone.

"Espo. Anything on the call?"

"Came from a payphone about a block away. Ended about five minutes before time of death, approximately- we're pulling all the footage from CCTV cameras in the vicinity. We'll have it in the morning. It was the second call to her cell from that phone, the first one was about a half-hour earlier."

He's wandered up after giving his statement, back to familiar haunting grounds, ones that haven't changed much since he left. He comes up just as Espo finishes talking, and the boys give him a sharp look.

She interrupts before either can say anything, can ruin the fragile chemistry of the night.

"Alright, nothing more we can do tonight. Go home you two."

He nods at them goodbye as they file out, the pair of them with speculative looks on their faces, but still protective of her. They nod back, friendly but not overtly so. Whatever happens between them has to be the first step, the first move to fixing the other friendships that grew around them like ivy growing on an oak tree.

She moves back towards him, towards her desk. He's perched against edge, fiddling with one of her elephants.

"I actually miss this place." His voice is rich and smoky. It makes something flare inside her, a heat that has been banked for three years now.

"What, the coffee or Gates yelling at you or Ryan and Esposito twitting you?" She carefully avoids any mention of herself. They've been remarkably open and remarkably honest tonight, the connection between them snapping back into place like it'd been three days since they'd seen each other, not three years. But she's loathe to test that connection, a bridge of spun glass, on purpose.

"All of the above." He raises an eyebrow at the filing cabinet that sits next to her desk where his chair used to be. "I guess it doesn't miss me though."

"Sorry. Without a partner to sit there creepily watching me do paperwork, it made more sense to just have the paperwork next to my desk."

"No partner, still?"

"Flying solo, Castle."

"Who watches your back?"

_No one_. The unspoken answer sits between them, and she watches his eyes tighten in response, in guilt and pain.

She has to break the mood.

"C'mon Castle, I'll give you a ride home."

There's less traffic on the ride home, and conversation is more inconsequential. She asks about Alexis and Martha (both with new boyfriends, neither of whom he particularly likes. She's always liked that protective side of him towards his family). He asks about her dad, about Espo and Ryan and Lanie, laughs genuinely as she recounts some of MJ's recent antics.

For a moment the clock is wound all the way back, to better days before they hurt each other, scarred each other, to where she can pretend that she hadn't made one of the biggest mistakes in her life in walking away from this.

And then, all of a sudden, they're there, at the building for his loft. He slides out of the passenger seat then turns to look at her. Is this it? Goodbye? A final parting on better terms than they had left on previously? Her traitorous breath catches again, words failing her. For a moment a heated look crosses his face, and she allows herself to dream, to fantasise he might ask her up for coffee. But then the mask settles again, holding her at a distance, holding her at bay.

"G'night Beckett." He backs away from the door.

"Rick…wait."

He does.

She chokes up again, but she fights it this time, fights it because she'll be damned if she's going to let him walk away out of her life like this. Not after tonight, not after the last week, the last month, the last three years.

"Do you…do you want to get dinner tomorrow?"

He closes his eyelids, rocking back slightly at the question. The world collapses to just the two of them, all traffic, all lights and sounds and everything else too much to be processed while he's thinking about this question.

He opens them, and blinks slowly, beautiful big blue orbs that scream to her _don't hurt me, don't hurt me again_.

"Dinner tomorrow. You can tell me about the case."

She'll take it. She'll take any inch he'll give and scramble for the rest, scratch and claw for it if she has to. He's already walking away, walking towards his door, and she drives off back towards her apartment once he's inside.

There is a gravity, a magnetic pull between them, no matter how hard she fights it or how long it has been. And she is tired now. Tired of fighting it, tired of him flickering on the edges of her conscious, now that she's had t a taste of the real thing again, in her car, next to her desk, at her side.

But she knows it isn't enough to stop fighting the pull. She also needs to start fighting…for him. But she doesn't know how.

* * *

_Them beautiful reviews are beautiful, keep them rolling in and I'll keep rolling out the chapters. _

_We're hitting our stride into the meat of the story now. _


	12. Chapter 12

The day is full. Ryan runs the surveillance tapes from around the payphone, but there's no actual view of the phone, and not enough coverage around it to reliably spot someone using it. She has Espo working up Kruger's financials, and gets to work interviewing her colleagues and friends.

Compton is smooth and slick, a little too packaged. She goes to see him at his office in his law firm. He has patrician hair, an aquiline nose and a stentorian bearing. He'll go far in politics, especially if those steel-grey eyes reflect his personality. No he doesn't know any reason anyone would kill Kruger. Yes she has enemies, she works in politics after all. No he didn't know anything specifically she might want to go to the police with.

Her sister, Castle's old ex, now lives on the West Coast. No point interviewing her yet. The wife is on a flight across the Atlantic right now. Parents have passed away. Ryan's now working through phone records, seeing if there are any other unusual calls or numbers there, anything they can use to follow up on the case.

It's slow, methodical police work, of the old-school variety. Castle would've been bored, would've spun half-assed theories about political conspiracies and CIA cover-ups and what not. Instead she just follows the evidence, keeps interviewing friends and co-workers, building up a picture of the victim as a whole person.

No word from Castle.

The strong political operator. The hardass negotiator. The loving wife.

A work rivalry pops up. She follows up on it.

Tony Froome is a handsome man, his carefully-groomed beard framing his striking features and light hazel eyes. He's also slippery as a snake. She works the box with him, letting the silence fill the room, letting it build, letting that slightly edgy feeling come over him.

"What was your relationship like with Victoria Kruger?"

"We were colleagues on Jeremy Compton's bid for the New York Senate seat. I was his media and PR director, and Victoria was running the political strategy."

"Did you get along?"

He barks a short, sharp laugh.

"No we didn't."

"Affair gone wrong?"

"C'mon Detective, I know you know that she doesn't…bat for the right team. No, our disagreement was more of a personality clash and a disagreement over professional reasons."

Not exactly motive for murder, but she follows up on it.

"Care to elaborate, Mr. Froome?"

"We'd never worked together, but Victoria…had a reputation. For not playing fair. Not colouring inside the lines. Now I know that politics isn't a game for cleanshirts and honest men, but there were…ugly rumours."

"Like what?"

"That she'd planted false stories about her opposing candidates in the past. Gone so far as to doctor photos and documents before releasing them to the media." He shrugs, that fashionable thousand-dollar suit shifting with his shoulders. "There's playing dirty and then there's rolling around in the mud."

"Do you have an alibi for last night between the hours of 10pm and midnight?"

"Sure, I was out for a late dinner with my girlfriend. At The Ballantyne. You can check with their waitstaff and so forth."

"We will, Mr. Froome, we will."

No word from Castle.

Unfortunately, the alibi checks out. She has Ryan and Espo set to chasing down old leads, old political campaigns that Victoria Kruger might've worked on, seeing if they can dig up old political enemies that Froome had hinted she had, while she goes back to the hotel, speaks to the staff there, trying to find out if anyone had overheard anything from the phone call, had some crucial piece of evidence that would be the break in the case.

She doesn't get lucky.

Her phone beeps, and she practically leaps for it back at her desk.

_Mother will be out tonight. Come over to the loft when you clock off?_

She'd imagined a quiet dinner at Remy's, or that he'd choose somewhere smart and sophisticated and expensive. Not the loft. Not where they had more than a few bitter memories.

_Yes_. She texts back, willing to let him have the homeground advantage, if that's what he wants. What he needs.

"Yo, Espo, any word on the financials?"

"They seem pretty normal."

"Damn." She mutters under her breath.

Maybe it's his recent reappearance in her life, maybe it's the frustrating nature of the case, where nothing really makes sense, where there doesn't seem to be a motive, or a suspect at all. But all she wants to do is hear him spin some ridiculous theory. Some political conspiracy, a KGB hit squad, time travelling killers…anything at all.

She makes herself a cup of tea instead.

They make little headway for the rest of the day, ruling out people more than finding any useful leads. Even that is effective, in its way. Tomorrow she will have to interview the spouse, maybe hopefully gain an insight there, and also consult with Lanie over the autopsy. Something will have to give way.

She sends Ryan home first, on his way to wife and child, once there's not much to be done, just paperwork and updating the murderboard. Espo bows out soon after, and she keeps an eagle eye on the time herself, not wanting to be late for dinner and yet dreading it the closer it approaches, something like anxiety clawing at her insides.

And yet, when she finds herself standing in front of the door, 15 minutes before the appointed time, most of what she feels is simply…anticipation.

* * *

_I'm always interested in your reactions to bits and pieces of the action, especially when I hadn't meant to convey certain impressions. Makes me think about my intentions as the writer. Please keep letting me know your thoughts. _


	13. Chapter 13

The door opens to Martha.

"Oh, Martha…hi." She can just barely manage to stutter out a greeting to the woman, who had welcomed her into their home, their dinners, their breakfasts, their family. Who had given her advice, and sought out her advice.

"Katherine, my dear." The older woman's voice is rich and musical, and most of all warm. She expected an edge, or at least neutrality tempered by coolness. She gets neither. At least one member of the Castle family doesn't hate her. "Come in, come in."

"Thank you." She has a bottle of wine in her hand, not wanting to come over empty-handed. It won't be better than most of Castle's own collection, but this feels like something of a re-start, a do-over, and she is once again a guest in his house. She must come bearing gifts.

"Richard is just in the shower. Not expecting you for a few more minutes, I suspect."

"Oh, that's OK, I'm early."

Martha's dressed in a glamorous outfit as ever, looking every bit the aging stage diva, possibly the only one not to have changed a whit in the past few years. Well maybe a few more lines around the eyes that she has absolutely no intention of mentioning.

"It is nice to see you again, you know. Nice to have you back in the loft."

"And you too. I do miss being here sometimes." A note of sincerity, of genuine emotion, that she didn't quite intend to show winds itself around her words.

"Well, far be it from me to meddle too much in my son's personal life, but I'll definitely say that he hasn't quite been the same since your…partnership ended. Or maybe just paused. Took a break?"

"Mother, not now." Castle interrupted Martha's line of questioning before she was forced to give a meaningful answer. Gone were the formal clothes of the previous night, but in a plain black t-shirt and comfortable jeans he still made her breath quicken, her stomach flutter as he always had.

"Oh all right, I'm supposed to be off anyway. Have a good night you two." Martha waves her fingers as she sidles out, and she can't help a small smile breaking out on her face at the easy domesticity of it all here, not much different to how it was before.

"Sorry about that." He walks over to the kitchen, clearly checking up on the food.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it. That's just your mother being…well, your mother. Here." She hands over the bottle of wine quickly, but is unable to stop her fingers from brushing his wrist, just a moment of unnecessary contact that sends a shock up her arm. He reacts too, those azure eyes darkening just briefly, enough to reassure her that whatever else has happened between them, the physical chemistry is still there, still present, still arcing as strongly as ever.

Small consolation, in wider terms, but she'll take her victories where she can get them.

He brings out the rice and stir-fry, simple food, but as ever a side of him she never really got tired of seeing- domestic Castle. The father, the provider, the cook. Who he was really, not the image he presented to the world.

The butterflies in her stomach take wing again.

"How's the case going?"

Oh good, the case. The sure footing of their relationship, the easy common ground. Yes, she could use this. Latch onto it, ease her way onto more difficult conversation.

"Frustrating. None of our leads are panning out."

"Oh one of those, I remember."

"Yeah. Mysterious phone call originating from payphone, no surveillance. Nothing in the financials. No witnesses to what happened in the alley. Kitchen was loud, no one heard the shot…"

She walks him through the specifics in detail, watching him take them in, build a picture in his own mind, put the little pieces of the puzzle together as well as anyone she'd seen. Maybe even better than herself at times.

"Maybe it was an assassin. With a silencer."

"I swear Castle, if you try to tell me she was a spy…"

"What a perfect way for the Russians to get one of their own on the inside, though!"

"Mmhmm."

She takes a sip of her wine, knowing her eyes are twinkling despite herself. This is the rhythm she remembers, the easy push-and-pull over theory-building and cases, Castle eager to jump in with logic-defying stories while she concentrates on the evidences.

Her heart clenches at the memory, because they've lost it, lost it through their own machinations and this faint shadow of those four years is nothing but a painful reminder.

Something of her thoughts must've showed on her face though, because his expression changes just as quickly, closing off, guarding himself, shadows lengthening on his face

Just like that, the moment is gone.

He steps away from the table, clearing their plates, putting some physical distance between them. Closing himself off, shoulders drawing in. She doesn't miss the body language.

She trails after him into the kitchen, not sure what to say, but sure this isn't the note their evening isn't going to end on.

He turns to face her, keeping the width of the island between them.

"Why are you here, Beckett? Why have you come back? What is there left to talk about?" He breathes out, nostrils flaring,

"I miss you. I miss…us."

It's the most honest she's ever been with anyone in the past three years. She doesn't even know she had that kind of honestly left in herself, really. But this…this was a turning point for them, she could feel it, and if she couldn't bring herself to be honest now then there wasn't going to be anything left to rescue later.

"And maybe I do too. But maybe we missed our chance."

"Did we? What if we're getting one last shot?"

"It isn't the same Kate. You can't waltz out of my life for three years then come back in and try to pick up as if nothing has changed."

"I'm not. Things have changed."

"Have they?"

"Tell me you're happy Rick. Tell me you're happier with me out of your life, and I'll walk out and never contact you again."

His silence is its own answer, damning and gratifying all at once.

"So then…"

"Just. Just let me have tonight, Kate. Let me try and process this. I can't stop thinking about you since yesterday, and I'm not…thinking straight."

"Don't shut me out. You want to talk? Let's keep talking."

"I'm spending tomorrow with Alexis. How about Sunday brunch?"

"Sunday afternoon?" Her usual time with her mother's case. This is a better way to spend it.

* * *

_I know some of you aren't enjoying the slow pace of the story. I am, though, so we're sticking with it. _

_Review away. _


	14. Chapter 14

"Ballistics came back." Weekend or not, they're working a murder, so she's back at her desk on Saturday morning, as are Espo and Ryan. The former has piped up as soon as she's walked out of the break room with a cup of tea in hand.

"And?"

"9mm, no record of it in the system."

"Thanks Espo. Wanna run down to Lanie and see what she found?"

"Sure thing." He sets off with a grin, a rare chance to mix business with a little pleasure. She can't deny them the opportunity to at least see each other given they'd normally be spending the weekend together if the body hadn't dropped.

After lunch she drives down to the SoHo apartment where the door is opened by the sniffling Emma Karpinski, a pale brunette with big eyes, puffier and red-rimmed by the obvious crying she'd been doing.

"Detective Beckett? Come in, come in. Call me Emma."

She stepped into a tastefully decorated room, large windows letting in the afternoon sun. The couple had obviously been wealthy enough to afford all this, which tied in well with the financial records she'd perused earlier.

"Emma, I'm very sorry for your loss, and I want you to know me and my team are going to do everything in power to catch the person who did this." She pauses, waits for the other woman to sit, then sits herself on the other chair. "Please, call me Kate."

"I just …I just got in last night. Please, tell me what happened."

"We're still working out all the details. All we can tell you right now is that Victoria was killed two nights ago during a charity-cum-political fundraiser." She pauses for a moment, but presses on. The questions need to be asked. "I have to ask you Emma, do you know anyone who would want to kill her?"

"No. No one. But…"

"Any detail could be useful."

"Vicky was worried about something. Something big. We talked about it before I flew out for the conference. She wouldn't tell me what exactly, because she thought knowing might put me in danger."

"She wanted to go the police?"

"We were going to discuss it more when I came back. I was encouraging her to go to the police, but she was reluctant."

"Do you know why?"

"She didn't know if she could trust any random police officer." The woman's lips wobble, a sheen of guilt and responsibility appearing on her features. "Oh I should've pushed her! I shouldn't have left."

"None of this is your fault, Emma. None." She injects steel into her voice, but knows that residual guilt will possibly never leave. "Did she have any evidence? Papers?"

"She had…she kept it on a USB stick, you know. A small silver one, with an engraving of a rose on it. I'd bought it for her on a whim on one of my trips."

She checks her notes for any mention of a USB stick, finds none. She'll follow this up at the precinct.

"That's good to know. Any other copies?"

"No, she said it might be too dangerous, especially to have at the house."

"Nonetheless, would you mind if our IT-forensics team came and took a look at your computers?"

"Of course not. Whatever you need."

The rest of the interview is brief, and par for the course. The wife is still clearly trying to process everything that has happened, is still in a state of shock. She makes sure a friend will be over shortly to help look after her, and then makes her way back to the car when the phone rings.

"Beckett, it's Ryan."

"Go."

"Found an interesting appointment in our victim's calendar for three weeks ago. Initial JM, 3 pm at the Crossford Café. Unlike all other appointments, there are no other details."

"Thanks, I'll swing by."

The Crossford is a small, elegant café, all quiet nooks and crannies. Privacy is easy, but luckily one of the baristas has a long memory.

"Oh, yeah I remember. Gorgeous. Usually I don't go for the older woman type, you know, but she was…memorable." He has a sleazy grin on his face, and she has to tamp down the instinct to wipe it out with a sarcastic remark. She needs him helpful. "Yeah, she was with a guy. Tall, around the same age as her. They were all handsy and flirty you know."

This makes her rock back on her heels slightly.

"You sure they were intimate?"

"Oh yeah, definitely. Eyesex like crazy, you know."

That pings a memory or two with her. Eyesex like crazy she does know.

"But…" He starts again, and then trails off, this time looking a little down.

"But what?"

"He left first, and she looked different after. Like kinda annoyed or disgusted. As if she'd been faking it when he'd been around."

Interesting. People often forgot that waiters and service staff were around, let slip their masks and guard around them.

"OK, thanks for your help."

"Not a problem." He gives her a lascivious leer again, and this time she doesn't reign in the glare in return. He squirms uncomfortably. Good.

She details her findings to Espo and Ryan when she gets back, sending one to check over the victim's belongings in case the USB had been missed somehow, and the other to look for anyone with the initials of JM who had been in the life of Victoria Kruger.

She herself let her eyes rove over the murder board as the evidence finally allowed for some chinks in the case, something they could use to crack this thing open.

She wanted to celebrate, or at least swap ideas with Castle.

How had she gone three years without his company, she had no idea now. It felt more and more like a mistake every time she thought about it, regrets layering regrets, till that ache inside her throbs once more.

Unfortunately no more leads on the case show up the rest of the day, and reluctantly she sends the boys home, before heading home herself.

For the first time in three years, she curls up with a glass of wine and her original, pre-print run copy of _Heat Wave_.

* * *

_Only a few more days till S6. The sneak peeks have been so great. I'm excited!_

_As always, reviews highly appreciated._


	15. Chapter 15

The next day brings her an early morning yoga class, part of her Sunday ritual she is loath to forego even for the case, and it is small and peaceful as usual, allowing her to centre herself for the day and the week ahead. It has been a turbulent few days, both personally and professionally and the rituals and exercises are a way to lose herself to her limbs and physical senses, release the pressure and tension as she sweats and stretches till she leaves feeling renewed, the weight temporarily lifted from her shoulders, concerns muted for the time being.

She clocks in alone, giving the boys the day off. Gates is strict about use of police resources and bringing in detectives over the weekend, and she decided she alone is all that is required to chase down the mysterious JM.

She goes through Kruger's professional and personal contacts, sifting through old emails and records, the slow and methodical kind of police work Castle always professed to hate but in actuality was good at, could power through reams and reams of files looking for anomalies, looking for aberrances in a few hours or even overnight doing a better job than her or Espo or even Ryan (the best researcher amongst the three of them). Maybe it was his own internal editor's eye for reading or his mystery-author sense of consistency, but she'd spent more than a few pleasant hours poring over letters, files, bank records and what-have-yous with him. Even in the first case they'd worked together, when the mail had been the fan mail sent to him as they'd been brought together over the murder of Allison Tisdale, they'd worked the pile together, tracked down the red-herring suspect (as it turned out).

Her morning turns into lunch, but the search bears fruit of sorts. Jayanth Malinga was an intern for her at Washington a few years back, Jared Miller is an old college friend who pops up in a couple of friendly but innocuous emails and Jean-Alaine Mondreaux is a colleague from a 2-year stint spent in a consultancy in Paris. Chasing down pictures and matching them against the description from the sleazy barista narrows it down to Mondreaux or Miller, and likeliness makes it Miller.

She chases a hunch, and makes a quick phone call.

"Emma, its Kate Beckett. Detective Beckett. Hope, I'm not bothering you."

"Oh, hi Kate. How can I help you?"

"I was just saying down a couple of stray leads and a name popped up. Did your wife know someone called Jared Miller?"

A pause on the other end of the line tells her she might have scored a hit.

"Jared…was an old friend of hers. They even used to date, back in college. He worked in DC for a few years, in politics like her, and even came over to our house for dinner a few times. I never liked him. Charming but…fake, you know. Plus, well, I used to get jealous. Petty, I suppose."

"But he and Victoria stayed friends?"

"I guess she knew the old him. She knew I didn't like him, so I think they stayed in touch mostly by email and stuff."

"Thank you, Emma. I'll be in touch if I need anything else. Have a good Sunday."

A basic information search on Miller turns up little. Never married, splits his time between New York and DC, worked on campaigns on both sides of politics, on national, state and federal level. Once for Bracken, back in the day, though that could be coincidence. Castle always insisted there were never any coincidences in murder cases though, and more often than not she agreed with him.

The rest will have to wait for tomorrow though, including a possible interview with Miller himself, as she needs to get down to meet Castle for their…date? Appointment? Whatever it is. Turning up late would not be best idea in any case.

He's already there as she walks in, the navy blue of his open blazer contrasting well against the bright blue of his shirt, and even brighter blue of his eyes. He's sitting in a corner, a small square section of space devoid of other people. Hushed conversation from other booths is difficult to distinguish in any case.

"Hey Castle, getting started without me?"

"Never, Beckett." He smiles, that easy unconsciously sexy smile that makes her glow a little on the inside, before maybe remembering that they're at a state of détente and tamping it down again.

The waiter swings by before she has a repartee, and he orders a cappuccino. Not his usual. She orders an Earl Grey tea. Not hers either.

"I see our drink orders have changed. I picked up the cappuccino habit during a short stint in Melbourne at the end of my travels. What's your excuse?" He raises an eyebrow, and she squirms a little internally.

"I…don't like drinking coffee anymore."

"Oh? I remember you used to subsist on caffeine at one point. How long have you not been drinking coffee?"

She meets his eyes fully, letting the contact sit, spark between them, a tingle of electricity in the air.

"Three years."

A sharp intake of breath on his part as he processes that answer. She fidgets nervously with a lock of hair, toying with it with her fingers.

"I…that's not really playing fair." His smile is a little sad, a little careworn around the edges.

"I don't want to play fair." She wants to touch him. She wants to touch him so badly. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin against hers, that slight pleasant shock she always used to get at the contact, and then the slow burn of the heat that would build inside her if the contact lasted. She wants to feel it again, she hasn't felt it in three years, hasn't quite felt complete without it.

She must've been staring at his hand, or it was their old telepathic connection, He lifts his broad fingers, moves them towards her. She looks up at him, invitation in her gaze, daring in his. When the pads of his fingertips close on her arm, and stay there, not moving, something long dormant and locked inside her stirs.

"I remember you might've slapped that hand away once…" His voice is low and husky, scrambling parts of her brain.

"And there was a time when we knew each other's coffee orders off by heart. Things change."

She pushes one ankle forward, finding his foot, nudging against it. There is an edge to this sophomoric flirting, a darkness that colours it from the outside in. They never used to do this. Be this brazen. But she's sick of being the ice queen, and she'll bet a dollar for every criminal she's ever caught that he's not interested in defrosting one twice over.

They're interrupted by the arrival of their drinks, but she's determined not let an opportunity slip by her. Not again.

* * *

_I've hit a patch of writer's block on the story. Trying to work past it, bear with me._

_Leave a review, as always, with your thoughts._


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